


A Wandering Wave

by orphan_account



Category: Tsuritama
Genre: M/M, Mind Control, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Urara attempts to live a normal alien-human life while juggling his own insecurities and an increasingly complicated attraction to Sanada Yuki. Contains one-sided Urara/Yuki</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> Summer is well on its way and what’s a better summer anime than Tsuritama?
> 
> Since there’s not a ton of specific details on the aliens, I’ll be using my artistic license quite a bit. I’m writing based solely on the anime and not any other official material, ie: staff interviews and whatnot. I also haven’t seen the English dub, so my characterization is based off the subbed version.
> 
> Please note the warnings on this. This is (eventually) a dark!Urara fic and bad things happen to people as a result. If I warned for it, it’s going to happen.
> 
> This story is also completed and will be uploaded as I revise it. Coincidentally, the sequel is also completed.
> 
> …Enjoy?

\---

“That’s backwards!” Haru exclaimed, grabbing Urara’s arm and pushing it back through the sleeve. “The low part goes in front.”

Still slightly groggy, Urara nodded and let Haru fix the shirt. Clothing on this planet was too varied for his liking, every article individualized by cut and colour and fabric. Admittedly, he found it overwhelming.

Rotating the shirt once, Haru pulled his arms through and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. Yuki’s shirt sleeves were too short on him, Keito said he was ‘built like a beanpole’, and everything needed to be adjusted.

“See, the tag goes at the back,” Haru said, his hands somewhere behind Urara’s neck.

Urara nodded. Vaguely, he recalled having heard that detail before.

Satisfied with his work, Haru clapped his hands together. “Good! Let’s get going!” He turned, threw the door open, and bounded down the hall and stairs. The clinks of cutlery and the pleasant sizzle of food drifted through the open door. If he strained, Urara could catch pieces of conversation: Yuki’s laughter, Keito’s quiet wisdom. The yell was Haru’s customary morning greeting and the ensuing thump was him crashing headfirst into Yuki, followed by a surprised yelp (Yuki’s) and some giggling (Keito’s).

Urara did not join them yet. The noise was a barrier.

He walked to the big mirror in the shared room and brushed his hair. Sleep had left the ends tangled and he dug the borrowed comb (Keito’s) into them, ripping out several pink-blue strands. He then tied his hair into a high ponytail, making sure to keep the nape of his neck bare. The sweltering heat only worsened with his hair down, and, of all human sensations, the itch of hot, beading sweat was one of the worst. Like Haru, he didn’t tan or burn, but the heat ached nonetheless.

His human reflection was strange. Like all camouflages, the form was intended to suit his personality, but the arrangement of features and colours seemed as ill-fitting as his clothes. Why was his hair so bright, his body so tall? Haru, the exuberant one, seemed plain next to him. Perhaps their camouflages had been inexplicably reversed.

There was the low, heavy sound of footsteps from the stairs. “Hey, Urara? Breakfast’s ready,” Yuki called. He was smiling. Urara could hear it in his voice.

“A-Alright,” Urara answered, fumbling with the comb. “I’m coming!” His fingers tangled around it, the teeth digging into his palms. Bright blue plastic contrasted with the pink-white of his skin. His knuckles jutted out, white and sharp like bare human teeth.

After a pause, Yuki’s feet thumped back down the stairs.

Slowly, Urara released the comb.

\---

School was interesting. The course material consisted of many diverse branches of knowledge but relied on a uniformic system of presentation and application, a paradox that he found endlessly fascinating. Certain subjects, such as mathematics, had a set method for approaching and solving problems while others, such as visual art, posed questions abstractly and with limited criteria or confines. Freedom of expression and uniformity were both rewarded, although they were (primarily) exclusive to different subjects. Haru’s attempts to merge art and mathematics were met with confusion and sighs from their homeroom teacher.

Today, they were learning about amphibians.

“Ahh! My head hurts,” Haru whined, rubbing his forehead. “Frogs are confusing….”

Urara silently agreed, looking forlornly at his biology notes.

The teacher had instructed them to review the lifecycle of a frog. The diagram on the chalkboard showed how eggs became tadpoles which eventually became frogs. Yuki was over by Haru’s desk, pointing at the arrows on the diagram as he explained the process.

“So, humans are amphibians!” Haru exclaimed.

Yuki’s face twitched. “I…don’t think that’s right.

Crossing his arms, Haru stated matter-of-factly, “Humans go in the water and on land, so they’re amphibians!”

Yuki’s face twitched again, his grin beginning to look a little strained. “I-It’s more complicated than that….”

Haru gasped and stood up, knocking over his chair. “Yuki’s a frog!”

“Haru…”

 “You were a tadpole!”

“Haru!”

While Haru chased Yuki around the room, Urara copied the diagram into his notes. His frog was lopsided and had six legs, but he wasn’t motivated enough to erase and redraw it.

There was nothing like a frog on his home planet. Perhaps their lifecycle could be compared to the camouflage of his own kind, but frogs could not return to being tadpoles.

Frogs were dynamic but linear creatures, their metamorphosis having a finite end. The species had the potential to be transitional, but that potential went unnourished on this planet. In a way, Urara felt sorry for them. Like many Earth species, they were subject to an irreversible hierarchy.

Across the room, Haru was in the middle of a frog-human debate with four other classmates. His charisma charmed the others, making them laugh and smile with ease. Urara ignored the tight feeling in his chest as best he could. He envied and coveted. It was his nature.

“Hey.”

Yuki’s presence startled him. The boy leaned against his desk, his blazer askew from the earlier chase.

“H-Hello,” Urara replied. His voice sounded oddly hollow.

“So, hey. Well…” Yuki trailed off, self-consciously running a hand through his hair. “How are you liking the lesson so far? Do you have any questions? I…might be able to help.”

Urara kept his eyes fixed on the wood grain of his desk. It was rude (by human custom) to avoid eye contact, but Yuki didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to wilt under a person’s gaze, even if their intent was friendly. Haru spoke highly of Yuki’s confidence, but Urara saw familiar cracks where his underlying anxiety poked through.

“There is no precedence for a species like this on our planet,” Urara explained quietly, his hands tying themselves into knots under the desk. He half-expected to feel the phantom bite of the comb. “I-I think that’s why Haru and I are a little confused, being aliens and all.”

Yuki nodded. “Yeah. Although, it’s hard to tell if Haru’s actually confused or just teasing me…”

“Probably a little of both,” Urara admitted.

Yuki laughed. His hand came up and covered his mouth, attempting to stifle the sound. It was sharp, rich, and genuine. Yuki’s intent was as clear as the sound.

“Hey.” He put a hand on Urara’s desk, leaning over him slightly. His hair fell around his face, the red vivid and near. “Let’s go fishing after class.”

Urara’s nails dug into his palm.

He nodded.

\---

Haru worked at the Usami family store on Tuesdays, which left Urara and Yuki otherwise alone. Keito saw them off with a knowing smirk, straightening out Yuki’s fishing hat and kissing his cheek as he went out the door.

The breeze carried the smell of salt all throughout town. Urara had never known that a different breeze could exist until Keito had pushed back his bangs one day and said, “ _A little ocean air is good for the complexion_.” He recalled that Earth had landlocked regions, some even bereft of large river and lakes.

He wondered why people even sought water at all. Most had access to it from wells and taps, but tourists nonetheless flocked to Enoshima and commented on ‘the view’ and ‘the beach’ and ‘sand’. On a busy day, the boats in the harbor filled with fisherman, new and old, and families eager to spend a day on the water. The tiny forms of boats multiplied without restraint, dotting the horizon. Natsuki had once said, “ _Fishing is a universal calling_.” Urara hardly knew the boy, but Yuki and Haru mentioned him often enough that his presence was tangible. He sounded arrogant and very young: a fledgling with a loud voice.

Enoshima was a cluttered place. Mailboxes, benches, a tori arch, lush trees, green grass, cobblestones, garbage cans, tourist stands, and people of all sorts drifted by as he walked, each vying for his attention.  The grand observation tower jutted out of the island. A restaurant left its doors open, letting the smell of grilled fish drift freely down the street. His senses were hyper-aware, reveling in the chaos.

The pier was familiar. A stretch of clear water, well-suited for casting, lay before them. The waves lapped in, a rhythmic, gentle sound.

“That was so embarrassing,” Yuki muttered for the fourth time, rubbing the cheek Keito kissed with one hand as he opened his tackle box with the other.

Urara couldn’t decide what the socially acceptable thing to do was, so he did nothing and stared blankly around the pier. If he was lucky, Yuki would ignore his rude behaviour.

The fishing boats were still out and, as expected, the pier was deserted. It smelled perpetually of dead fish, dissuading anyone out for a stroll or looking for a place to lounge in the sun. Nothing mixed worse than dead fish and harsh sunlight, something Urara learned from repeated exposure.

“Alright,” Yuki said, clapping his hands together. “Time to get our rods ready! You remember what to do, right?”

Urara nodded carefully. He remembered how to assemble the rod, attach the lure, cast, and reel in. He didn’t care much for the experience itself, so much so that he couldn’t recall what a ‘sea bass’ even was, but he remembered enough to please his housemates.

Yuki corrected him as he tied his lure, crouching next to him and guiding him with his hands. As a true human, Yuki did not wear his body like a mechanical suit. His movements were fluid, conveying a natural ease that Urara’s kind could never achieve or understand; the price of infinite adaptability was a lack of mastery.

“Good!” Yuki stood and stretched, beaming all the while. “Let’s get fishing!”

He casted with his entire body, planting his feet firmly and arching his back. Next to him, Urara felt aware of every motion, every fidget and prickle of anxiety. The heat of the sun was a catalyst, beating down on his self-control. He mimicked Yuki as best he could and was rewarded with a smile.

The sight and smell of the water brought back strange, unwanted memories. His palms began to slicken with sweat, his hands fumbling around the rod.

“It’s very quiet here,” he said, his voice rising just above the wind.

“Yeah,” Yuki agreed. Then he sighed, exasperated. “Okay. I-I’m not quite sure _how_ to say this,” he admitted, looking away from Urara, “but I actually…”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The wind ran through Yuki’s bangs, pushing them up and away from his eyes. They looked troubled, intense.

“Well, I _did_ want to go fishing, but I also wanted to... Well, I wanted to ask you about…”

The hint of red on Yuki’s face captivated him.

“What is it?” Urara asked, his line unattended and dragging through the water, away from the visible trashing of fish. Yuki’s nose ended in a sharp, pink point, the thinness of the skin revealing the colour underneath. His cheeks were the same, red darting along his high cheekbones.

A flush of colour could indicate embarrassment, the reactionary element likening it to any other human expression. The beauty of it lay in Urara’s eyes, in his species, and in their culture. Red was more than a focal point, the stimulus lying beyond the physical.

Red did not embody or symbolize any concept or emotion; red was the inspiration for such things. His unfitting body itched, too confined and hot in places. The sun, the wind, and the ocean became peripheral, needless. Red spread out through the veins of Yuki’s eyes and settled in their inner corners. Its concentration was thin, the restraint entrancing.

“Haru isn’t exactly easy to talk to sometimes,” Yuki began, a well-practiced flick of his wrist correcting his line. Burned by the sun, his knuckles were dusted with a raw, rusty pigment. “I want to learn more about your world, but he dodges my questions. I don’t think it makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn’t tell me anything either.”

“You want to learn about our world?”

Urara flinched as Yuki turned to face him.

“Yes. Would you please teach me?” he asked.

Urara froze, overwhelmed by both the request and the eager, open display of _red_. He remembered the lure, the shape and the texture of it, the shock of pink streaking the sunrise, and Yuki, the hero, drenched in salt water and sweat and clothed in the colour of damnation.

Before him now, Yuki was a magnet, a beacon of red.

The length of his silence made Yuki visibly nervous. He began to ramble.

“Of course, i-if it’s okay with you and Haru and, uh, everyone else. I’m not sure if there’s any special alien code or contract, and I know D.U.C.K. made you sign all those documents and…”

“Yes.”

Yuki blinked and flushed even brighter. He smiled honestly and turned back to the water. Urara mimicked him and tried to still his hands, tremors running up his fingers and coiling deep in his wrists.

\---

This boy was his lure. The realization both terrified and reassured him.

\---

“I don’t like talking about home,” Haru said, idly drying his hair with a frayed towel. He had immediately bathed after work and used up all the hot water before Yuki and Urara returned.

“I know,” Yuki replied, placing a welcomed hand on his shoulder. “Today I asked Urara if he wouldn’t mind answering some of my questions, and I wanted to make sure you’re alright with that.”

Wide-eyed, Haru looked at both of them. Still dressed in his sweaty fishing clothes, Urara felt painfully out of place and wilted under the younger boy’s gaze. Haru had always been perceptive and his time spent on Earth nurtured that trait.

“Of course, of course.” Grabbing Yuki by the arm (and nearly pulling him over), Haru repeated himself. “Of course, of course, Yuki!”

After (unsuccessfully) trying to free himself, Yuki took off his boots and started towards the kitchen, dragging Haru behind him. “Let’s start dinner and- Oh! Urara, can you turn off the hose? I put a sprinkler on before we left.”

“Hey! Watering the flowers is my job!” Haru exclaimed.

Yuki rolled his eyes. “Yes, but you missed all the stuff Grandma planted last weekend.”

As Haru began to pout and complain, Urara tip-toed out the door and closed it as gently as possible. While Haru did take his chores seriously, he and Yuki tended to disagree on how those chores should be done. Keito was far more tactful in her criticisms and perhaps Yuki would learn her technique one day.

Outside, the grass was a deep green and pleasantly swayed in the breeze. As Yuki had said, the sprinkler was on and sprayed thin streams of water onto the garden. The mechanism swayed back and forth, and Urara watched the motion for awhile. He had accidentally walked under the spray once and had since learned from the experience.

Making sure to time it correctly, he darted by the sprinkler and turned the knob controlling the hose to ‘off’. Immediately the spray became sluggish. He waited until the sprinkler was completely still before leaving the garden.

As expected, Haru was waiting for him by the front door. Some conversations were too delicate for telepathy and Urara wasn’t exactly keen on having Haru inside his head.

“You’re not mad, are you?” he asked, wary of how much time they had. He could hear the clatter of pans from inside and the low tone of Keito’s voice.

Haru shook his head. “No. Yuki asks weird questions about home. I’m not sure what I can tell him,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Oh.” Urara shifted awkwardly. “Are we…not supposed to tell him anything?”

Haru shook his head more vigorously this time. “No, no. I…can’t word things the way I want to. Home is complicated. It’s hard to talk about because it’s complicated,” he declared. “Whenever I talk to Yuki, he gets confused.”

“Oh.” Urara looked down at the stone pathway, dodging Haru’s gaze. “W-Well, if it’s alright with you, I’ll try to talk about home. Yuki asked me to, so I’ll… _try_.”

Haru stepped forward until they were toe-to-toe. Even though he was smaller, his form had greater presence. The blond of his hair became a dusty gold from the absence of light, his skin almost grey. Night was coming quickly, its chill seeping through Urara’s jacket and thin shirt.

“I’m glad,” Haru admitted quietly. “I want you to be friends with Yuki. I’ve always wanted that….”

His words struck Urara. The night air he inhaled rattled down his throat.

“Let’s go inside!” Taking his limp wrist, Haru dragged him inside and into the bright, lively kitchen. The chill clung tightly, unfazed by the warmth of Yuki’s smile.

Keito sat him down and poured him hot tea, the cup chipped at the base and handle. She rubbed his shoulders and complimented him on his good grades.

The affection slid off him like water on scales.  

\---

After dinner, he quietly excused himself and went upstairs. He straightened out the shared room and changed his borrowed clothes. Although the scent of the ocean still lingered on his skin and hair, he couldn’t stand the thought of bathing, of allowing the water of this world to touch him. Tomorrow he would feel different, more stable perhaps.

\---

Low clouds hung overhead as they walked to school, Haru chatting about an art assignment while Yuki nodded absentmindedly. Every few minutes, Yuki would glance over his shoulder and give Urara a strange, expectant look, like he was waiting for him to join in the conversation.

“…and I finally got the paint out of my shirt!” Haru proclaimed, lifting up the pink vest he was wearing and gesturing at the pristine white underneath.

“You mean _my_ shirt,” Yuki grumbled.

Haru laughed and jabbed Yuki with his elbow. “Sorry, sorry! Yuki’s shirt!”

“Just be careful next time, alright?”

Urara managed to dodge Yuki’s next look by pretending to very interested in a nearby car. It wasn’t unusual for him to walk in silence, so why was Yuki expecting anything different?

As they neared the school gates, Haru ran ahead and loudly greeted a group of younger students. As the most outgoing of their group, Haru’s popularity grew with each passing day.

“Urara?”

Yuki was standing to his left, so close that their shoulders almost touched. He flinched.

“Y-Yes?”

Yuki’s expression was puzzling, a mixture of concern and embarrassment, but Urara tore his eyes away and stared hard at the worn pavement.

 “I was wondering if we could meet on the roof during lunch,” Yuki said.

“Oh.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “I…don’t know the way…”

He could hear Yuki’s smile. “Don’t worry! I’ll show you, okay?”

He nodded and started towards the main building, keeping his head down.

Wordlessly, Yuki matched his strides.

\---

The morning lessons passed in a blur.

Although Urara copied the notes down, the words lacked substance, context. His pencil moved, directed by clumsy fingers: nerves, bones, muscles, and flesh worn like a glove. His pencil continued to move, taking the teacher’s words and forcing them into the constraints of written language. The peculiarities of his tone were lost, discarded for efficiency.

By the open window, the natural light coloured the tips of Yuki’s hair vivid orange.

For the first time, Urara found himself _bored_ with these lessons. Moving his blue mechanical pencil took far more energy than it usually did. Focusing on the blackboard was impossible, the words and diagrams all smudging together into a great grey-green mass. The spot of red-orange in his peripheral vision became torturous.

He did day-dream on occasion. Sometimes a word or concept would send his mind reeling, taking him far away from the desk and pencil. But this was different; this was an abnormal fixation, an obsession beyond his control.  

The bell rang. For the second time that day, Yuki’s sudden closeness startled him.

“Hey, I got your lunch,” he said, lifting up a neatly tied lunch bag. “Are you ready to go?”

Urara stood up quickly, his chair scraping across the floor.

“Yes.”

\---

“Most people avoid the roof when it’s overcast like this,” Yuki remarked, staring at the grey clouds.

The moisture in the air was thick, brushing against Urara’s senses like wet fabric. “It’s not going to rain,” he said.

Yuki shrugged and sat down on one of the benches, laying out their lunches next to him. “Most people don’t have an alien as their weatherman.”

Urara sat on the other side and tried not to watch Yuki too closely. “Haru’s not very good at telling the weather.”

Yuki made a choking sound and almost dropped his chopsticks. “R-Really? I didn’t know you guys could do that.”

“He thinks about water too simply. Coco does the same thing.” Urara felt his lips turn upwards in a slight smile. “But I…don’t want to talk about water. It brings back memories of when I was....”

Although he wasn’t hungry, he picked at his food. Yuki did the same, reshaping his rice into a circle and then into a square. What had happened that summer was a difficult topic, one that was hardly, if ever, discussed in Urara’s presence.

“I’m sorry.”

Yuki frowned. “You don’t have to apologize, Urara. It’s okay.”

“Okay.” He folded his hands neatly in his lap and looked at Yuki. The sudden calm he felt was strange. “What do you want to ask me first?”

Putting down his lunch, Yuki moved closer to Urara. He had clearly practiced for this moment.

“How do aliens learn Japanese?”

“How…do… _aliens_ …learn…Japanese?” Urara repeated, raising his eyebrows dubiously. Haru did warn him that Yuki asked difficult questions, but he hadn’t expected the first one to be _this_ difficult.

“Yes,” Yuki confirmed. “I tried asking Haru and he ran from the room screaming.”

“I’m…not surprised.” Urara sighed, clutching his head. “It’s…. _complicated_.”

“But you can try to explain it to me, right?”

The problem wasn’t the concept itself, but the limitations of human language. Explaining something with no precedence easily became abstract and impossible to decipher. He needed some kind of comparison, something for Yuki to latch onto.

He chose his words carefully.

“Aliens are like plants,” he said.

Yuki stared at him. “Plants?”

“Yes. The green textbook says that plants absorb light energy from the sun using photosynthesis. In a way, aliens absorb information from their surroundings. When we came outside, I knew that it wasn’t going to rain because the water in the air told me so,” he explained.

“But that’s about water. I asked about language.”

“Water and language are different, but how I get information on them is the same,” he said.

“Okay. I think I get it,” Yuki said, running a hand through his hair, “but how are you _choosing_ what to learn about?”

 “It’s all about survival, Yuki. For example, when Haru first arrived on Earth, he took on the form of the dominant species. Then, he took on the language of those around him. This process was aided by the information banks in the saucer. Things like clothes and mannerisms came next. All of this allows an alien to blend in with their surroundings.” Gesturing at the sky, he continued, “Knowing where water is also helps keep us safe. We know these things because it’s important that we know them.”

“And you just have to wait for all this information to come to you?”

“Yes and no. This sense gives us enough information to quickly blend in and stay protected, but it doesn’t make us all that knowledgeable,” he admitted.  “Even though I know how to write in Japanese, I’m not a master poet or anything… I also can’t tell you what the weather is like in the next town or if there will be rain tomorrow.”

Yuki clapped his hands together and sat up straight. “Okay, I think I get it.”

“Are…you sure?” Urara asked. Although he was relatively calm, he wasn’t all that confident in his explanation.

“You’re just really, really, really, _really_ good at observing what’s around you,” Yuki said. Grinning, he continued, “You’re like a sponge that sucks up information. After you’ve had too much information, you can’t suck up any more.”

 “Well, I guess you could put it that way….”

Yuki was radiating enthusiasm. He took one of Urara’s hands and held it between his. “Thank you, Urara. I understand now!”

Warm hands enveloped his, the liquid inside their veins pulsing audibly. The contact burned down through his skin.

“Y-You’re welcome,” he replied, forcing the words out of his too-tight throat. His back teeth grinded together. His mouth went dry. The moisture in the air brushed enticingly against Yuki’s exposed skin.

The moment passed. Yuki let his hand go, picked up his chopsticks, and eagerly dug into his rice.

“See, that wasn’t so difficult,” he said through mouthfuls of food.

“H-Hey, that’s not true,” Urara protested halfheartedly. For the sake of appearances, he chewed on some of his food. “Answering your question took a lot of ‘brain power’,” he said, borrowing an expression he heard from a classmate.

“You’ve got lots of power to spare,” Yuki replied. “Grandma keeps going on and on about how well you’re doing in school.”

He felt his face heat. “T-T-That’s…” He trailed off, his mind blank.

“Haru’s doing well too. I think he’s trying a lot harder this time.” Yuki laughed. “Well, I should say that he’s actually _focusing_ this time. You know how easily he gets distracted…”

“Y-Yeah.” He hid behind his bangs. Although they were a hassle most days, he appreciated how long they were in situations like this. The thin curtain of blue and pink gave him distance, protection. Perhaps someone fragile like Yuki understood how valuable that was.

Yuki reached for his cell phone and held it up to the light. “Huh. I thought we had more time than that… There’s just so much I want to ask you, but I think we’ll need more than one lunch break.”

“Of course,” Urara said. His stomach tightened at Yuki’s bright smile. “I-I know you have work after school, but maybe we can…plan something.”

“Sounds great!” Putting his phone away, Yuki turned back to his lunch.

The silence would be comfortable for Yuki, the causal kind enjoyed by two friends. Urara tried to appreciate it as best he could.

\---

Haru walked him partway home, humming over the dull drone of passing cars. His song sounded suspiciously like the school bell ringing over and over again. Like Urara, he tended to drift off, his thoughts ensnared or off on some inspired tangent.

“I feel bad for frogs,” he blurted out, spinning to face Urara. “They’re like us, but get stuck partway.”

A group of nearby students was staring at them. They whispered to one another, their voices rising and falling as they laughed.

“Y-Yeah,” Urara mumbled, walking a little faster. “T-That’s tragic, I guess. If you feel that way…”

Haru puffed his cheeks out. “U-ra-ra!! Use your backbone! Your backbone!”

Urara adjusted his backpack and put a hand between his shoulder blades. “…I don’t understand,” he said, pushing down and rubbing the protruding knobs.

Haru, looking more and more like a pufferfish, gawked at him. “No, no! It’s an expression! It means that you need to be confident in what you say and do.”

“Oh.” Being corrected on his use of language was always awkward. Even Haru, a fellow alien, didn’t hesitate when correcting him. “I-I didn’t know that…”

“Well, now you do! Urara has a lot to learn from Yuki, especially about confidence,” Haru said, crossing his arms.

“Right. Of course,” he muttered. It was always easier just to agree with whatever Haru had to say than to bother arguing with him. Yuki was interesting and better than Urara at many things, including being a human being, but Urara didn’t exactly appreciate being _reminded_ of that on a daily basis, especially by Haru.

Haru thought he was being helpful. His fellow alien was troubled, misguided, and clearly _needed_ his guidance. The pity in his eyes was blinding.

After kicking a pebble, Haru stopped and grabbed Urara’s hand. “I have to go this way now,” he said, pointing at a narrow street. “I’ll see you after work, okay?”

Haru’s palm was slick and cold, a false-skin glove rubbing against Urara’s own.

“Okay,” Urara replied, enduring the contact.

\---

He had planned on getting some homework done, but his futon looked so comfortable. It was unfair that he should hunch over the desk and work until the late hours of the night while the futon simply lay there unused.

Keito, Yuki, and Haru were all exerting themselves still. He was the only one resting.

“They’ll forgive me,” Urara muttered, blinking at the ceiling. “I’m new at this ‘human’ thing.”

Everyone seemed to forget that. Every action of his was always compared to Haru, who had been wearing his disguise for far longer.

When Yuki commented on his grades earlier, he complimented Haru immediately afterwards. It was like the two aliens were forcibly joined, sharing clothes, a bedroom, and even friends.

“I’m not an individual to them,” Urara said. The truth in those words hurt.

\---

He wasn’t some young fledgling that knew nothing.

He saw what was in Haru’s eyes.

\---

Comfortably alone, he indulged in a moment of hate.

\---


	2. Abrasion

Sunday morning, Keito had him outside and weeding her garden. The borrowed gloves were a size too small, bunching up around his knuckles, and the same bright pink as his hair. She drifted by every few minutes, pointing out what plants were weeds and what weren’t.

“Yes, those are weeds,” she said, picking out a dark-leafed spindly plant. “Haru leaves them in because they make flowers.”

“So they’re flowers but also weeds?” he asked, using his little spade to dig out the roots. Keito always noticed when someone didn’t dig out the roots properly.

“I guess it’s a matter of perspective,” she admitted. “There are plants that we want in the garden and plants that we don’t. We want flowers in the garden, but not all flowers are good.”

“There are bad flowers?” The thin white roots were exposed and he pulled the weed out, shaking off the excess dirt. All the weeds went into a bucket, which was later emptied into the compost.

“Bad flowers take all the nutrients from the soil and multiply. They take so much that all the other flowers eventually die. So, we must weed the garden early and often.” She rubbed her dirty gloves on her apron and stood. Age weakened parts of humans; she moved differently than Yuki, more mechanically.

The small patch of flowers looked different. By removing the stray weeds, he could see each vivid petal and each dark pointed leaf unobscured by needless clutter

“Thank you for helping me, Urara.” The corners of Keito’s eyes crinkled when she smiled.

“I-It wasn’t… It wasn’t that much work,” he said, bashful. He shook his gloves before taking them off, but they were hopelessly smeared with dirt.

“Let’s get cleaned up,” she said, tucking their gloves into her apron.

As they washed the tools and their hands, she told him that Haru was going to meet with Coco that afternoon. Coco spent most of her time on Earth, but Urara sensed that it was a temporary situation. She likely was tasked with observing him, making sure that he ‘behaved’ for the first few months. Haru’s role in the whole affair would be minimal. Still almost a fledgling and lacking Coco’s maturity, he couldn’t be entrusted with such responsibilities.

“I’m sure Yuki will be tagging along,” Keito observed, turning off the tap, “and maybe Sakura will too. I know she’s awfully found of Coco….”

“Y-Yeah,” he replied, trying to remember who Sakura was.

“Do you want to go with them?” she asked.

 “No.”

Keito handed him a towel and brushed his bangs out of his face. He should have lied to her.

“That’s alright,” she said. “I’ll tell Yuki. Can you turn the kettle for me on when you go inside?”

He nodded, stunned. She was too kind, too giving.

He was incapable of returning such kindness.

\---

Enoshima had been a garden once. He smothered it, choked it. The fresh green stalks of spring withered and died.

\---

Haru was either suspicious or concerned. Keito’s explanation must have been tactful enough to quell his immediate curiosity yet stern enough to prevent him from interrogating Urara. All he had left was the ability to stare at Urara.

In an attempt to keep their room tidy, Urara began folding clothes. He couldn’t quite remember what went where or how ‘laundry’ worked, but the room looked neater after things were folded properly. Like many of the household chores, Keito had taught him how to do it. T-shirts were easy and his favorite to fold. Bigger things like pants and blankets remained a challenge.

By keeping the window open, the room smelled fresh and clean. The curtains were pushed back and rustled softly. Yuki had worried that the room wouldn’t be big enough for the two of them, but the tall open windows made it seem massive. On windy days, the windows had to be closed. On those days, the walls shrank.

The variety of clothing in their room puzzled him. Folding made some classifications easy, but others didn’t make any sense. Jackets weren’t to be folded, but long-sleeved shirts were. Some shirts with buttons needed to be hung on hangers while others didn’t. The divisions were completely arbitrary.

In the garden, he had Keito to look over his shoulder and point to what plants were bad. Her advice felt kind, nurturing. Urara wanted to be independent, but he first had to learn. The cacophony of Earth had revealed his limitations.

The next piece of clothing was mostly orange with short sleeves. The collar was stiff and had one white button on it. It was a shirt and he folded it.

On the other side of the room, Haru continued to stare.

\---

Of course, it wasn’t easy asking for help.

His reputation was what defined him now: weak, crazed, half-mad. It was hard to speak over the voices of those who damned him, the loudest being himself.

\---

After Haru and Yuki left, Urara started his weekend homework. Math was eerily similar to a discipline on the homeworld. Although the terminology and symbols were all different, he knew how to approach it. Engrossed in his work, the hours seemed to vanish.

Keito snapped him out of his daze by asking for help with dinner. Her face was too kind, so he begrudgingly accepted. Part of him cherished her unflinching gaze, her open heart, but he wondered if she understood how monstrous he truly was.

That was the appeal of Yuki. Yuki wanted to _know_ him.

Helping Keito in the kitchen was dull and frustrating. Every ingredient was unique and required so much attention, preparation, and care. The kitchen was a modest size and yet it felt so small with two people in it. There was a window, but it was short and closed.

Haru and Yuki returned a full hour late. Something was wrong with the way Haru was standing, his shoulder slumped and his arms hanging limp at his sides.

“Haru’s wilting,” Urara blurted out.

Yuki kicked his shoes off, one landing upside-down. “Coco is leaving Earth soon. I…wasn’t expecting to hear that, neither was Haru.”

“Oh dear.” Keito walked over to them, placing her hand on Yuki’s shoulder. “Do you know how soon?”

“A week, I think,” Yuki replied. A frown marred his face. “Can we just…not talk about this right now?”

“Of course,” Keito said, her smile a touch too tight. “Let’s all sit down in the living room, okay? You boys seem tired.”

Their hands were clasped, fingers interlocked. Yuki’s knuckles were stark white. Even though Haru still had his shoes on, Yuki led him into the living room, sparing Urara an unreadable glance as he passed. His focus was elsewhere or, rather, it was on someone else.

The bright, eclectic room dimmed under their somber mood. Keito’s pale grey hair was a cut of moonlight.

It was only as Yuki released Haru’s hand and muttered something gentle that Urara understood what was happening; the line that tethered him to Haru was fraying. A unique, emotional event had happened to Haru and _only_ Haru. They had become individuals once again.

While the first tears formed in Haru’s eyes, Urara watched Yuki: the slope of his shoulders, the knotted column of his throat. These thoughts were his and his alone.

The dinner he and Keito worked to prepare lay untouched on the dining table, tendrils of heat rising from the cooked fish. Immaculate side dishes clustered around the centerpiece. Clean, bare plates waited, utensils nettled by their sides.

Urara went up the stairs, into the shared bedroom, and closed the door behind him. Although they were selfish, childish, rude and petty, these actions were his and his alone.

\---

Haru slept as he always did, curled up on the large yellow chair that lurked beside the desk. The chair wasn’t a futon and it definitely wasn’t a bed, but it was where Haru slept. Abnormal was how Haru had entered the room, his eyes red-rimmed and distant. He changed silently and offered Urara a small, sad smile. Haru hadn’t said a word to him all day and Urara found that he didn’t mind the silence.

\---

He had expected for Haru to cling to Yuki’s side all night, perhaps even climbing into the boy’s bed. The image of their entangled ankles, mused hair, and sheer physical _closeness_ struck Urara right in the chest, cracking against bone as it pressed down towards his fluttering heart. They had slept together in the past, innocently curled around each other through the night. Haru did not understand arousal, he was too young still, and his desires were those of a near-fledgling, clinging to the side of a dear friend or mentor as they guided him through the world’s ever-wavering current.

If they had been romantically involved, the possessive nature of their kind would have made Urara’s presence in the house intolerable.

Urara had spent longer on Earth than intended and now he understood the appeal of flesh and sensation. He wanted to count the knobs of Yuki’s spine, to taste sweat off pinkened and trembling human skin, to embrace the silhouette of the lure, immortalizing the perfection of its design through hands and tongue and mouth: an aggressor yet also a worshiper.

His dreams were of slickened skin and the siren red.

\---          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me take a moment just to clarify my headcanon on how Urara’s lure works:  
> Since the original lure broke in episode 11, I’m just going to assume, for the purposes of this story, that it wasn’t Urara’s ‘true’ lure. Since Haru is another of his kind and they are based off a very competitive species of fish, Haru being in Urara’s personal space in episode 12 created a ‘lure-like’ effect, ie: Urara couldn’t resist being ‘baited’ into attacking him.
> 
> Since Haru saw a lure the first time he looked at Yuki in episode 1, I guess it could be argued that Yuki is his lure too, although Haru’s not aggressive the way Urara is.
> 
> I ramble more about alien physiology in the sequel too… This explanation felt extraordinarily clunky in the narrative, so I figured an Author’s Note would do the trick. …Onwards!


	3. Opportunity

“Haru’s not feeling well,” Urara announced as he reached the bottom of the stairs, lugging his heavy schoolbag behind him, the textbooks clunking as they struck each step. There were two pieces of toast waiting on his plate and he dug into them eagerly.

“Oh. I guess that’s to be expected,” Yuki said, his own toast half-finished and growing cold. “Although, I wish he wouldn’t skip school…”

“Haru’s not feeling well,” he repeated. “You stay home from school when you’re not feeling well.”

Yuki stood and put his plate in the sink. “I know that, but usually it’s a different kind of ‘not feeling well’. Like, a cold or something.”

“Coco will visit. She won’t be gone for very long.”

“Of course she’ll visit,” his voice shook, teetering with each word, “but that’s… T-That’s not enough. He’s still sad.”

Urara frowned. “Haru can always go back home. They would be together then.”

Yuki whirled around, hands spread and eyes wide. “He shouldn’t have to chose,” he snapped, words stilted and broken. Red coloured the whites of his eyes, veins prominent and dipped in red. “Everything was going so well here and… I thought we could be like this for a bit longer. I… I wanted that.”

A tremor ran down Urara’s wrists, fingers clenching and nails scrapping hard, catching on brittle skin. The wet sheen of those eyes transformed the red within, liquid veiling the intricate design. Distortions could be beautiful and more entrancing than the original image.

“We should go,” Yuki mumbled, adjusting his already perfect tie. The only physical sign of his outburst was the splotchy pink of his cheeks and neck. His bangs fell and hid his eyes. They would dry soon.

“Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m fine, Urara.” He sounded tired, drained. Those words were thick with lies. “Let’s get going, okay?”

“No.”

Yuki had no response. Perhaps he was surprised at Urara’s defiance, his proverbial ‘backbone’.

“Yuki is not feeling well,” Urara said. “Yuki should stay home from school.”

“This is _different_.” The red flush of anger began to creep up his neck, darkening the earlier rose-pink. Although hidden, the same intensity would also change his eyes, hardening and narrowing them. “I-I’m not....” He exhaled through his teeth. “Just drop it, Urara. Let’s go.”

“No.”

If the boy was of his kind, his opercula would be flared and rigid. Warmth left him in the wake of Yuki’s visible anger. This human body was such a reactive thing, changing its state at immediate provocation, weakening or strengthening; fight or flight. But he was standing still, facing the boy while tempering the cold in his veins, the responding anger making him posture and rise.

“If you’re worried about Haru, then I am worried you,” he said, lips curling around the lie. He was a deceiver, claiming emotions that he could not have. Sympathy and worry were foreign and unmastered things, the dominions of others.

He used the words in his mouth to attack and bash and bend the other. Puppet hands yearned for the lure’s touch. Lies were the strokes of his fins, parting the water, bringing him near. Exhilaration was liquid, gathering in the back of his throat and wetting his palms.

“I understand how you feel and I… Thank you, Urara,” Yuki muttered, bowing his head in unknowing submission. “I just don’t want to be here right now. The house isn’t the same when Haru is… _this_ way. You understand that, don’t you?”

Urara nodded. This shared experience would bring him closer. “Yes. I understand. We should go to school for Haru’s sake and our own.”

All signs of anger and fight and _resistance_ left Yuki’s form, his frail shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. There was the phantom taste of blood in Urara’s mouth, the manifestation of his victory.

He put his empty plate on the counter and stepped into his shoes. Yuki followed, mirroring him.

It was strange to feel so confident in this body, to understand every twitch and tremor. Conflict was understood by him, as was manipulation. Earth had given him desire.

\---

Without Haru’s constant presence, Yuki spent more time talking to him and _looking_ at him. Gentle, reassuring glances in class, questions crafted with genuine concern. He basked in the attention.

But there was another: Erika, a slim girl with dark, knowing eyes. Before, Yuki was divided between Haru and Urara _and_ Erika, but Haru’s absence had shifted things. Yuki responded to her so eagerly. It had to be attraction.

Perhaps his pursuit had been hopeless from the start. True to his human nature, Yuki sought affection, kindness. The lure dangled over Erika, waiting for her wandering hand to grasp it. No cruel hook would pierce her then.

And so Urara took what he could. He asked inane questions, ‘forgot’ directions, and reverted to a stray fledgling, eager for a side, any side, to offer shelter. Humiliation had its rewards, scraps they may be.

\---

Yuki took him to the roof again at lunch. Little clouds bereft of rain hovered overhead, a thin veil of shade falling.

“So your planet doesn’t have a name?”

“No.”

“And your _species_ doesn’t have a name?”

“No.”

Yuki gave him a dubious look. “And you’re not lying to me, right?”

“I’m not lying,” Urara replied, annoyed at the turn in conversation. “Humans are overly attached to such things. There’s too much to memorize…”

“But names are useful,” Yuki sputtered, struggling with the new information. “Seriously, your _planet_ doesn’t have a name?”

“No.”

Yuki rudely pointed his chopsticks at him, expression hard and determined. He was taking the subject very seriously and with focus that rivaled that of fishing. “So how do you fly your spaceships there?”

Dubiously, Urara replied, “We enter the coordinates where our home planet is.”

“So it’s called ‘Home Planet’!”

“No,” Urara said. Yuki’s face twitched. “It really doesn’t have a name. It’s just the planet that _is_ our home planet.”

“So what about Earth? Earth has a name, right?”

“Humans named this planet Earth, so we called it Earth. If it didn’t have a name, then we wouldn’t give it one.”

“Okay. So you use the names that others give to things, but don’t feel the urge to name things that don’t already have names?”

He smiled. “Yes, Yuki.”

“Well, that was complicated,” Yuki muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. “I guess that explains some things about Haru… He actually forgot my name once, if you can believe that.” He laughed. “Haru says it like a hundred times a day and then he went and forgot it.”

Jealously churned and clawed at Urara once again, digging further and further in.

“Because Haru is so young, such actions are excusable.” He was weak, desperate for that taste of victorious iron, that burst of watered-down red. Memory taunted him, reminded him of that past victory, submission. His beacon, the siren red, smiled at him with an unguarded, open mind and no cruel, visible hook to flay the pursuer, the masked worshiper. “H-He’ll retain information better once he’s older and past the fledgling stage,” Urara said, words rasping up his throat and scrapping through his teeth. No punishment could burn like this; he was helpless, enthralled, and _unable_ to take what tormented him so.

Yuki laughed again. Was his stuttering _cute_ to him now? Was his torment viewed as shyness, as some _failing_?

“Aging must work differently with you guys,” Yuki observed, a bright, optimistic tilt to his voice. Of whalesong, birdsong, and wavesong, none could compare. “I always thought you were the same age, but the way you said ‘fledgling’ makes me think otherwise…”

“H-Haru is more like a child than an adolescent.” He wrung his hands together. “Many forms of desire are unknown to him. He also lacks independence and scares easily.”

Yuki clearly had difficulty with his phrasing. His expression changed, his brow furrowing. “By ‘desire’ you mean…?”

Urara cursed his very existence, took a deep breath, and firmly said one word: “Sexual.”

Yuki fell off the bench and scurried backwards on the floor like a frightened hermit crab, his face so thick with red that, had Urara not known the source, it appeared painted in thick strokes of acrylic.

“L-L-L-Let’s stop the conversation _right here_ ,” he exclaimed, picking himself off the floor with shaky, uneasy movements. He adjusted his jacket and tie five times each and pointedly avoided looking at Urara. The blush appeared even brighter against the blue of the sky.

Deciding to use his apparent social ignorance to his advantage, Urara blinked as widely as he could and asked, “Why, Yuki? I thought you wanted to learn about our world and our kind…”

It was extremely satisfying to watch Yuki squirm, to know that he held actual, palpable power over the boy.

“There are just some things that I absolutely, one hundred percent, absolutely _absolutely_ do not need to know about Haru,” Yuki declared, adjusting his jacket once again. “His…uhh… _state_ is one of those things.”

Urara tried his best not to smile or laugh or do anything suspicious. “Why?” he asked.

Somehow, Yuki managed to blush even harder. “D-D-D-Don’t you think that’s a little _private_?”

“Not really,” he replied, shrugging. “I’m no longer a fledgling myself. There’s no point in being secretive about it….”

“Okay, okay. We’re done with the conversation, okay?” Yuki, for some reason, put his hands over his ears and turned around. “Okay? This is over _and_ never happened.”

Urara sighed. “You’re embarrassed, aren’t you?”

“OfcourseI’membarrassed,” Yuki exclaimed. Even the tips of his ears were bright red. “I don’t want to hear _certain things_ about my friends, okay?”

Even though he was thoroughly enjoying himself, Urara knew he had to stop here. Pushing Yuki too far would hurt progress. Humans were irritable and difficult to manipulate. “Okay, Yuki. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Yuki mumbled, turning and giving Urara a nice view of his profile. The end of his nose was dusted red, like the crushed scales of a young river fish. “I overreacted a bit. I…didn’t mean to.”

“It’s alright,” Urara said, daring to touch Yuki’s hand with his own.

Fingers locked around his.

Urara had never craved rain so desperately before.

\---


	4. Shoresick

Yuki, quite literally, ran into Haru on their way home. The small alien teetered under the bulging backpack he was carrying, the contents rattling and smashing together. Fabric was stretched to its limits, pulling frantically at the fraying seams. The strap for his schoolbag was around his neck and the bag became an oversized necklace that swayed and bounced as Haru flailed around, his arms shooting out in big, wide gestures. His feet lifted from the ground and landed hard, soles smacking crisp against the pavement as his laces flew apart, unbound. Miraculously, the empty fishbowl on his head stayed perfectly in place.

Onlookers stopped momentarily before returning to their original pace, bustling along in little clusters. Their return to normality separated them from the sudden intensity, from the way Haru froze as Yuki cleared his throat. In a way, Urara felt more comfortable with them, the anonymous void, than those closest to him.

He could run, just as he did when Haru came into that familiar warm house with bone-pale skin and no energy in his steps, and embrace the call of the sharp salt air, the moisture riding on the wind, and drive his soul back into the water. But puppet-feed stood in place, pigeon-toed and unsteady under an equally unsteady body. The lure overrode all else and bound him to that familiar house and familiar school and shared little room and even the very spot he stood.

“I’m going to stay with Coco,” Haru said.

“I…understand.” Yuki’s expression crumbled. “I really do understand, Haru.”

Urara dared not to move, to break the moment. His heart pounded loud and hard, beating like storm waves against withered cliffs, wearing down through rock and bone with each white-tipped break.

“One week,” Haru said and the waves crashed louder, erratically. “I want to stay with Coco until she leaves. I’ll come back to the house after, okay?”

“W-What?” White-knuckled, Yuki stepped forward. “Y-You’re not leaving…right?”

Stretched to its limits, Haru’s backpack creaked. He adjusted the equally-stressed shoulder straps and grinned. “Of course not, Yuuuuki! I’ll come to school tomorrow too. I want to stay with Coco, but I will stay here on Earth.” After another wide grin, he continued. “Keito said it was alright too. I made sure to say goodbye to her before she left for that…conference…thingy…thing…..”

“It’s called a convention, Haru,” Yuki said with a well-practiced, admonishing tone. “She’s going to the gardening convention in the next town for a few days. I’ve told you this, like, twenty times already…”

“Sorry, sorry!” For some reason, Haru saluted them. “See you at school tomorrow! Bye!!”

“Hey! Wait a second!” Quickly, Yuki grabbed for one of Haru’s backpack straps, but the alien was too quick. Laughing, he twirled out of Yuki’s grip, winked at Urara, and ran down the street with his arms flung straight out.

“Sorry!” Haru yelled out, turning around to wave and somehow dodging a cyclist at the same time. “School tomorrow, Yuki! Urara!”

Tactfully, Urara placed a hand on Yuki’s shoulder. “I think he’s feeling better,” he observed.

“Urgh. I wish he wasn’t so impulsive.” Yuki’s muscled tensed, taut beneath Urara’s hand. If he pressed harder, he could feel more, experience the minutiae of human reaction. He restrained himself. “Come on,” Yuki said. “Let’s go home.”

The short instance of contact would have to be cherished as such. His fingers curled away, the texture of stiff cloth lingering.

Enoshima’s chaotic buzz dulled in Yuki’s presence. Cacophony faded under the gentle sway of his words, the honesty in his language. Lies were combative things, and they had no place in moments such as these. Yuki was bashful, bowing his head when Urara complimented him. Rhythmically, the lure swayed, surrounded by an inconsequential, colourless world.

“You wouldn’t _believe_ how intense some of those gardeners are.” Yuki shuddered. “I can’t imagine Grandma getting along with them. She’s not really the type to, like, punch someone because they insulted her tulips.”

“Are gardeners normally violent?” Urara asked, staring at the freckles dotting the back of Yuki’s sun-burned neck.

“No, not really,” he replied, chuckling to himself. “I think any hobby attracts a certain amount of…uhh… _passion_. I mean, some people are the same way about fishing. Natsuki has some _great_ stories about these sportsfishers….”

Yuki continued to ramble as they walked home, the topic wandering from schoolwork to housework to that weird teen drama Haru kept watching and finally to, of course, fishing. His entire expression lit up, an inexplicable glow framing him. Perhaps it was that ‘passion’ he mentioned earlier, the kind fueled by the intersection of knowledge and emotion. The reactivity of the human body continued to astound Urara.

“-and Natsuki has an extra, but if I want it, _I_ have to cover half the shipping.” Yuki sighed dramatically. “Shipping from America to here is so expensive, but I don’t want to wait, like, six months for his next visit.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Urara observed, recalling the idiom from a story they read in class.

Yuki snorted. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The little sloped roof of the house came into view, followed by the faded yellow exterior, pale against the blue sky. It was a faded blue, like the speckles of river rocks: an ordinary, dull blue. By Urara’s side, Yuki, vivid as starlight, was a pinprick of colour against the blankness. Attraction manifested as short, stuttering motions: trembling hands, too-fast heart.

Urara’s name had been haphazardly added to the outside nameplate. Haru had shoved a maker in his still-new fingers and guided them across the board, the smear of black ink flowing in strange, unknown motions, guided motions rather than independent ones. Two aliens had attempted to replicate the notations of this culture. The result was clumsy and humiliating in its forwardness.

Yuki fumbled for his key, wrist-deep in his schoolbag.

“-and I told Haru not to drink it, but you know how he is. Anyways, Grandma was laughing so hard when she found out and -”

The front door unlocked. Yuki pushed it open with one hand, gesturing wildly with the other as his story needlessly continued.  Urara closed the door behind him, hitting the lock.

“-so, by the time I stopped him, half my clothes were covered in bleach stains. I really wish Haru would read labels… You’d _think_ that, as an alien, his-”

As expected, the house felt vast and empty. Keito’s sage-like wisdom and Haru’s exuberant left a  great void. Yuki’s shoes hitting the floor seemed louder, sharper. The ‘thud’ of his schoolbag echoed. Gently sloped, the line of Yuki’s shoulders shifted and changed, muscles and bone and _substance_ beneath adjusting. His shoes were off now, the missing layer significant in its purposefulness. Was the boy unguarded now? Was the ease in his expression a trick of the light? Was this face false, as painted on as the scales of a lure? Alluring, open, false eyes. A lurking, serrated hook. False eyes led to false intentions, betrayal, dead emotions. If Yuki smiled wide enough, would the paint finally crack?

He was moving. By the living room, Yuki was still talking, his back to Urara. The sound of the faucet would not alert him, neither would the ‘clink’ of a water glass tapping against the sink. Split-face devils came in every colour and texture, some threaded with long feathers to hide their hooks. Red was no sanctuary.

“I’m kinda tired,” Yuki admitted. “I think I should lie down for a bit…” He stretched, arms coming up over his head.

The water in the glass changed, Urara’s very will projected onto the liquid and instantaneously received. Lingering bits of moisture in the air, on their skin, inside their bodies, hummed in response, yielding to the monumental shift. The change was well beyond the physical, a mere ripple to the perceptive eye, deceptively infinitesimal.

He struck. He swung the glass, water pouring out and connecting with the back of Yuki’s head, dripping down his neck and back. The direct contact rippled through them both, sending Yuki to his knees, a marionette with cut strings. The triangular halo burned overhead, its rotations swift.

For a long time, Urara waited. Someone, probably Coco, would break the door in. They would be furious, demanding an explanation for his actions and wanting to see some emotion, probably regret, twist his borrowed face. The homeworld would be alerted to his relapse. Every scale would be pried from his body. The puckered skin would be next, shredded with deceptive tenderness. Some nameless warden would be tasked with sewing up the pieces, of coaxing life back into the tangled organs and bits of lingering fins. New skin would be stretched and grafted, scales meticulously placed and attached with precise tools. Punishment is what the warden called it, her mind clouded by innumerable years and horrors. For his transgressions, he had to endure the loss of his original shape, the highest punishment available to a shapeshifter. The new shell dragged when it went through water, throbbing and aching with or against the current. A gentle wind raked like nails across the feeble casing.

Haru and his sister were blissfully ignorant. They smiled when they welcomed him back to Earth. The homeworld had tried so very hard to purge his mind of weakness, but the sight of them, their wholeness and their _ease_ , brought on such an acute rush of hate that his new, brittle body broke down and retched, colouring the clear water red with his own blood. A shredded throat, hardly capable of sound, burned with the aftertaste.

The front door remained secure. Dappled sunlight flickered through the tall windows, catching the red of Yuki’s wild hair. The damp patches shone.

Haru had told him to learn from his boy. Yuki was the lighthouse that guided them to shore.

“Haru, you shouldn’t have left me alone,” Urara said, his voice loud and strange. No one answered back. Without a will to guide him, the boy remained crumpled on the floor.

He placed the empty glass on the counter and pushed his bangs back behind his ears. This would never, _could never_ , happen again. This was an indulgence. This was _okay_.

Clutching the discarded strings, he ordered Yuki to stand. His body complied in motions so smooth that, for the briefest moment, Urara swore that it actually was Yuki. The hesitant tilt of his head was too accurate.

“I have been watching you so much. I…guess I didn’t realize how much. That explains this, doesn’t it?” Urara asked. Since he had no answer, Yuki gave none. He remained as he was, painstakingly real with the exception of his too-bright eyes.  

There was a knot in his throat. He tried to calm himself, but the words kept spilling out, catching on his teeth and coming out too sharp, too pitched and harsh like metalsound.

“I didn’t plan on being so… _confused_ about the situation. I… I didn’t think there was another way. There _isn’t_ another way, is there?”

He wanted Yuki to move. A hint of a smile, assurance, formed on his lips. They were rough and chapped with marks where bits of dead skin had pulled away. Mottled red.

“Take off your jacket,” he said.

Those hands moved swiftly, unfastening three buttons before pushing the stiff fabric off with practiced, enviable precision. Nothing remained but thin white fabric over a simple undershirt. The tie had to go next, Yuki yanking it down before undoing the tight knot. The flash of his bare throat was overwhelming, intoxicating. Finally loosened, the tie fell to the floor, fluttering down in a thin black curve.

Yuki stared at him, expectant.                                                                                          

Drawing on the images from his dreams, Urara brought Yuki closer to him, each step echoing through his head like a hammer strike. Commanded arms rose and pushed Urara’s jacket from his shoulders. His tie was pulled forward, tight against his throat, and attacked with swift, calloused fingers. Yuki’s face was bent as he focused on the task, pupils darting quickly. They were dilated, stark against too-bright irises.

A final tug released his tie, but it remained held in Yuki’s slackened hands. Urara’s uncertainty had made the action utilitarian. This was something Haru would do for him, a simple _favor_.

“Yuki,” he said, searching for any flicker of will in those eyes, meeting only searing, obedient brightness.

With a shaking hand, he touched Yuki’s chin and tilted it up. Their gazes matched perfectly.

“Yuki,” he repeated. The answer was the same.

He held Yuki’s jaw as he bent down and kissed him, threading fingers through Yuki’s flyaway hair and pressing others hard against his bare skin, feeling the hard line of bone shift and move as Yuki submitted to him. The gentle _slid_ of those lips, their coarseness matching his, burned through his body, tightening his psychic grip with unprecedented, immediate urgency. The boy’s taste rushed along his tongue, the moisture heady and thick, a slickened, intoxicating heat.

He gasped, desperate for air. Yuki’s lips were parted still, a lovely frame of pink-red. He touched them with his own, pulling back the upper lip and baring his teeth. Softly he bit down, pulling experimentally, the plump lower lip sinking between his teeth. Such a delicate thing had given him the feel of a new texture, a new sensation and faucet of humanity. The red deepened.

This time, Yuki kissed him. The angle changed, Yuki rushing up to meet him, hands digging into Urara’s back, contorted like claws. He enjoyed being taller, forcing Yuki to bend like this. The kiss was desperate, urgent, and Yuki’s open-mouthed _moan_ overwhelmed everything else. The sudden, sharp intake of air, the little hitch in Yuki’s breathing, drew Urara closer. Fingernails dug deeper into his back.

Yuki stilled as Urara ran his tongue down his bare neck. An enthralling, low _purr_ escaped Yuki’s trembling, bitten lips. When parted, they were enthralling. He tasted them again, forcing Yuki to yield once more.

 _‘On your knees,’_ he wanted to say. He wanted to see that mouth stretch.

Dreams were such taunting things, mockingly displaying images that could, supposedly, never be. Nothing was beyond him now. The sheen of sweat on Yuki’s skin touched his expanding senses, pressing his influence even deeper. Once inside that body, taut strings would stretch even further, their very fibers reinforced and strengthened, forging an almost unbreakable connection.

A will capable of governing thousands was now focused on one target. In his frenzy, Urara could snap such a small mind, but there was no need.

All he wanted was right in front of him.

He formed the image in his mind, of Yuki taking him in his mouth and looking up with wide, eager eyes. He could thread his hand through Yuki’s bangs and guide him, urge him to take even more. A slick mouth and too-bright eyes. A dream.

Nothing happened. Just inches from him, Yuki stared blankly, Urara’s tie loosely wound around one hand.

His influence remained. Overhead, his halo spun madly.

“On your knees,” he said.

Any command had peculiarities, accompanying details. His intent was clear.

“Yuki, I want you to…” He trailed off. Emotion choked him. “ _Yuki_. On your knees,” he ordered, straightening to his full height. A docile opponent faced him now. This was no time for hesitancy; an advantage could only remain for so long.

His eyes burned in their sockets, itching like sewn scales. His vision blurred.

Haru had told him about tears.

A tremor started in his hands and ran through his body, rattling down his legs and sapping his strength. It was unlike the chill of cold weather or the exhaustion of early morning, when his mind was easily overwhelmed and retreated. There was no shelter now. A cruel tool dug into him, cleaving through his ribcage and continuing on, bringing him a new form of agony. The tears ran down his face and off his chin. Twisting, the tool forced him to gasp and bend. His palms struck the wood floor. He sobbed.

A phantom hook tormented him now. Alluring, slender sliver. Maybe it had been sewn up inside of him, hidden somewhere amongst the organs. A wretch like him only deserved so much. The totality of this experience had been denied. He had each kiss seared into his memory, but now they were just fragments, more taunting than the dreams had been.

Tangible pressure built up inside his chest, pushing hard against his insides. But this body, this morph of a patchwork shell, persisted. He continued to cry and heave and _ache_ , but he did not split apart. His heart continued to pump loud and fast, echoing inside his skull. It did not burst.

The doll with cut strings, _Yuki_ , watched impassively as he writhed on the floor. His tears felt foolish, misguided, but they continued to fall.

Yuki’s lips were moving. “You’re feeling guilt,” he said.

Urara didn’t answer. The last thing he wanted was a conversation with his own subconscious.

“It doesn’t matter how strong you are, Urara. Ultimately, you don’t know yourself or what you want.” Yuki crouched and smiled at him. “How can you control others if you can’t control yourself?”

“Don’t patronize me,” he muttered.

“You blame others for your own faults. Everyone is part of some big conspiracy against you, aren’t they? It’s because you’re so important, right? Someone as strong as you must be important, right?”

“Shut up.”

Yuki laughed. “But why are you alone, Urara? Why do others intimidate you, Urara? You’re stronger, right? They should know that, shouldn’t they?”

Gritting his teeth, he rose slowly. Every limb shook and threatened to give out under him. He could not let Yuki go just yet. The wet red sheen of his lips and the still-pink flush of his cheeks revealed too much. There would be questions.

His subconscious continued. “Part of you is still indebted to this boy. Helplessness doesn’t suit you, does it? It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Yuki seized his shoulders and gripped hard. “So why the guilt? Why are you still crying, Urara?”

They beaded on his lower lashes before falling in neat little trails.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, grabbing at Yuki’s wrists. The pressure eased.

“You should hate Sanada Yuki.” It was strange hearing that in Yuki’s own voice. “You envy him. You’re tormented by him. You’re indebted to him. You hate him, right?” The hands gripped tighter. “But you can’t control him, Urara. Why is that?”

“I’m…unworthy.”

He momentarily imagined being slapped by Yuki, which would be the ultimate form of masochism. To his surprise, the impact never came.

“You’re too pathetic,” Yuki said. “It wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

The tears finally stopped. His eyelids felt swollen.

“Next to this boy, you seem so small. That’s what you really hate. This chaotic world swallows you whole, but this boy, who is so beneath someone like you, continues to thrive. You want to walk by his side, don’t you? Do you even know how?”

Urara hid beneath his bangs. “You and I both know the answer to that.”

\---

After ordering Yuki to the couch, he placed their blazers on the hooks by the door. The empty glass went in the sink. Yuki’s tie rested on the coffee table while his own went in the laundry basket.

He watched as Yuki went to sleep. It was only then that Urara released him, letting the loosened strings reform and become taut. Yuki stirred, but remained as he was.

Haru’s haphazard packing left a mark on their room. Clothes littered the floor, the furniture, and some even hung from the curtain rods, swaying in the breeze. Urara didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that he too was a complete mess.

\---


	5. Undertow

He rubbed at his eyes, but the rawness only intensified. A few eyelashes caught and fell loose.

From downstairs, he heard the creak of floorboards.

The creaks continued. They were distant at first, but soon sounded on the steps of the stairs. As they neared, Yuki’s lack of memory was all that kept Urara sane.

Knuckles rapped on the hard wood of the door. “Urara?” _Knock knock_. “Urara, are you in there?”

“Yes,” he answered.

In the doorway, framed by dark shadow, Yuki stood and looked at him with nothing but honest concern on his face. His hair had dried and stuck out in thick tufts of vibrant orange-red. Red framed his face, now pale and devoid of that subtle tone, that flush of blood peaking through stretched skin. The expression, the _honest_ expression, reminded Urara that this wasn’t his doll anymore. It looked so new and polished, bearing no trace of their earlier activities. If he had continued, would the face be marred? He could’ve bitten down and split the lip, scraped teeth along the column of that bared neck.

The sight of Yuki taunted him.

“U-Urara! Did something happen?” Stumbling, Yuki crossed the room and knelt down by his side. Urara hadn’t realized it, but he was on the floor.

“I’m fine,” he said, staring at his hands instead of Yuki. “I…don’t know why I look like this.”

“You were crying. That’s the only reason why you would look so…” Yuki sighed. “Urara. Did something happen while I was asleep?”

“No,” he answered. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s good. But, Urara, it might feel better if you talk about it. I-If you want to, you can tell me, okay?”

He suddenly felt very sick.

“I…think I miss Haru.” This lie was different; the acidic taste of bile touched the back of his throat. “I…thought about him and then my eyes felt strange. It wasn’t a good feeling.”

Yuki leaned closer to comfort him. He couldn’t see the mind lurking behind the human shell, the entirely _inhuman_ mind.

This was good, wasn’t it? Yuki would sympathize with his plight, strengthening their relationship. The little, frayed scrap of affection would settle somewhere in Urara’s chest and ease the itching and tearing of his many scars. And yet, despite the warmth of that affection, Urara felt an even deeper wound begin to form.

He wanted Yuki to push the bangs out of his eyes and smile gently, an intimate smile for no one else but him. Instead, he turned away.

“Can you leave me alone for awhile?” Urara asked.

Yuki’s hand had been just inches from his face. “A-Are you sure?”

He didn’t trust his voice. He nodded.

\---

He remembered the sting of those tears so strongly. The ecstasy of the moment vanished under guilt’s weight.

\---

This rare day was the last before Keito returned. Her morning phone call had the bustle of convention goers in the background and she giggled as her friend teased her for calling ‘the boys’ so often. “ _Tell Haru I said ‘Hi’,”_ she had said to Urara. Rage kept him mute.

All through class, Yuki chatted with Erika. He attempted to drag Urara into the conversation, but it never quite worked. Despite his promise not to, Haru was skipping again.

Urara focused on the ‘clack’ of chalk hitting the chalkboard and the steady drone of the teacher. When the lesson ended, he clicked his mechanical pencil and jotted down words, any words, to keep the rhythm going. If he applied enough pressure, the lead made a similar ‘clack’. Shaking hands made crooked words.

“Urara’s really good at Math,” Yuki said from the desk to his left. Erika’s dark hair fell forward as she leaned over Yuki’s shoulder to turn the page of his notebook. The paper rustled. “We can try asking him, if you want.”

“Hmm. I think I found the problem… Your notes say ‘sin’ when the problem says ‘cos’,” Erika commented in a hushed, reassuring tone.

Yuki jerked back and hit his knee on the underside of the table. “A-Are you serious? I spent _this long_ on a problem because of a _typo_?!”

Erika laughed. “You can double-check with my notes, Yuki. I’m positive it’s supposed to be ‘cos’.”

As she brushed past, Urara ground his lead into the paper.

At lunch, Yuki would ask him inane questions about aliens and the homeworld. After school, they would walk together while Yuki told him about Akira’s adventures in Russia or what Natsuki had yanked out of the water yesterday or some inane tale of companionship that never failed to irk Urara and make his throat constrict and choke on a sudden ball of dark emotion. At ‘home’, Yuki would instruct him in the kitchen and turn on some mindless gameshow while he read fishing magazines, occasionally circling some wizened fisherman’s advice in bright yellow highlighter. Highlighter ink would mark the inside of his hand in short, fat dashes of colour. At night, he would sleep alone and unaware while Urara lamented on that one singular lapse in judgment that left him so scarred and weak. If emotions could be carved out, his ‘guilt’ would be first.

But Yuki didn’t approach his desk that day. After the chime for lunch, Yuki and Erika continued to pour over the Math assignment, their lunches spread out in front of them.

The problem had never been Yuki’s feelings for Erika, but Urara’s inability to intervene. Even if he used mind control, the real Yuki would remain untouched. His intricate, incomprehensible human mind was a labyrinth.  For all his power, Urara, the one who had dominated so many, was helpless. He could only watch as the lure slipped and fell before his outstretched hands, never to be his.

When Yuki met him at the school gates, it was with a triumphant smirk. The day with Erika had clearly pleased him.

“Yuki. I…want to talk to you.”

Yuki’s expression fell into a familiar one of concern. “Of course. Do you…want to go anywhere in particular?”

“The pier.”

\---

The rush of wind and salt prickled along his senses and tugged at his loose hair. Far in the distance, fishing boats rode the current and bobbed with the waves. The sight both upset and grounded him.

He knew this place. It was undeniably a part of him. Perhaps the location would make the conversation easier.

“I want to confess something,” Urara said and Yuki immediately whipped around, his grey eyes wide and alarmed.

“W-What is it?” Yuki asked, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. The wind tugged at it greedily.

“Don’t worry, Yuki. It’s not romantic.” Perhaps he should’ve begun differently, but the bit of humor would ease Yuki’s nerves. The alarmed look in Yuki’s eyes confirmed what he already knew; this was a hopeless, one-sided attraction.

As predicted, Yuki’s tense shoulders dropped and he laughed with obvious relief.

Urara continued. “But I do want to talk about our relationship. I…think there’s much you don’t understand.”

Yuki interjected. “We have a friendship, Urara. ‘Relationship’ sounds either romantic or weird and clinical…. We’re friends.”

The waves roared and smashed against the hulls of moored ships. “Our friendship,” Urara said. Yuki nodded and motioned for him to continue. “I…. Yuki. During all the time I’ve spent here on Earth, I’ve never cared for any human being.”

Their silence was broken by the smashing of the waves and the responding creaks of hulls. Even in anguish, Yuki was beautiful.

“U-Urara...” He faltered, biting his lip and looking out at the water, like the answer would somehow be floating out there amongst the boats and gulls. “Urara, this is the part where you say something reassuring. You can’t just…stop there, okay? It’s too cruel.”

“But I’m telling the truth,” Urara replied. “I don’t consider how people feel when I control them. I don’t feel remorse for my actions, only injustice for being punished. That’s wrong, isn’t it? You can’t befriend someone like me, can you? I…see all this water and I feel it pulsing inside my head. I could level Enoshima, couldn’t I? I…could hurt so many, couldn’t I?”

Yuki turned to face him. Tears welled in his eyes, catching and distorting the light.

“Then why don’t you?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Waves crashed and churned. Urara couldn’t speak.

“If you’re so heartless, Urara, then what’s stopping you? If you can just _hurt_ people so easily and not care, then…why? Why spend your days at school with me and Haru? Why help Keito with her garden and wash the dishes? Why…do anything?”

He could grab Yuki and never let go. He could make those hands tear through their owner’s skin and claw until red blood ran black. He could do so many things.

“I don’t want to,” Urara said. Even to his own ears, the excuse was _weak_.

Yuki’s expression tightened.

“Right. I’m sure you get _such_ a power trip by going to school with us.” He laughed mockingly. “You probably sit there in the classroom and look at everyone and think about how little we are all. At any second, you could just break us, couldn’t you?”

“I…”

Yuki stepped forward, grabbed Urara’s shoulder, and dug his nails in. “Do you think I’d honestly buy that, Urara? That’s so fucking ridiculous.” Finally, his tears began to fall. The first struck the front of Urara’s shirt. “How dare you. How _dare_ you say that you don’t care about people. I don’t believe a single word of it…”

“Yuki, I…”

“I’m not done,” Yuki snapped and whirled away, stray tears hitting the ground. “I see the way you look at people sometimes. You just kind of…shrink away, like you’re so intimated that you can hardly think, and _I understand that so well_. That’s why I want to reach out to you, Urara.” Yuki paused to collect himself, taking deep breaths and looking out at the water again. “It’ll be hard, but I… I know that you will overcome this.”

His knees felt weak and his eyes began to sting.

Yuki sighed. “The real question is why you felt the need to tell me this…”

“It was a warning.”

The red of Yuki’s hair shone against the blue-green water. “And _why_ are you warning me?” he snapped.

There was moisture glazing over his eyes. Yuki was a stroke of colour against the ever-expanding blur.

He couldn’t lie now.

“I…don’t know.”

\---

That night, he did something very stupid.

Yuki had kicked most of the blankets off his bed and was curled up in a light blue sheet. His pajamas were garish.

Obediently, the minutes ticked by on the digital display of Yuki’s alarm clock. A straight ‘1’ became a broken ‘2’. The symbols cycled endlessly, their light cutting through the dark.

The finality of his actions brought a strange sense of security. This would be the last time they would meet. Yuki either understood him too well or not at all. The answer changed by the second, fluctuating and oscillating and making the minutes move too rapidly.

He was far from eloquent and had struggled with the wording of his letter. In the end, he had settled on a single word: ‘Sayonara’. Folded neatly, the letter rested on Yuki’s pillow.

His departure would hurt Yuki. He was Yuki’s responsibility. Or, rather, he _had_ been Yuki’s responsibility. Like many others, this boy was another jailer, another false-face, who wrought translucent chains with clean hands. Desire kept him here, rooted in place and _rotting_. He had never known a cell could be so inviting. Yuki’s tangled sheet had enough to spare. Urara could stay here, feigning a nightmare and drawing on the boy’s sympathy. But, no matter how close he pressed or how long he stayed, it would never be real.

For necessity, he had packed some of Yuki’s clothes and a small amount of money. His uniform stayed where it was, hung neatly on the wall with the buttons undone. Without a sound, he passed through the darkened house and out the front door, clicking the lock behind him.

That first breath of night air carried both anticipation and regret, clearing his head yet not his heart.

Enoshima was a ghost town and, aside from two salarymen stumbling along the cobblestone, his presence went unnoticed. The dead signs leered down at him, but remained as they were. The rhythmic lapping of the ocean carried farther than during the day, replacing the daily bustle. The permanent fixtures of the town, the shopkeepers, were silhouetted in his mind. He knew their usual stances, their boisterous voices as they called out to regulars and tourists alike. If, long ago, he had succeeding in smothering the town, this would have been its eternal state. Lacking a promised tomorrow, sleep would become death.

He could either take transit out of Enoshima or take one of the saucers. Coco had brought one when she placed him back on Earth and Haru, in his sudden urge to follow, brought a second. If he waited until Coco left, taking the other would be simple, but it would also leave Haru stranded. Unless he had a quantum entanglement device, which, given his rank, was highly unlikely, eons would pass before any of Haru’s messages reached the homeworld.

If he truly cared for Yuki, Haru’s safety would be important to him.

He was stupid for leaving the house before making his final decision. Shrouded by night’s dark, he stood and thought. Was he willing to sacrifice Haru for his own freedom? The prideful part of him already had its answer, but it was his hesitance, his sudden dip in his resolve, that troubled him now.

Perhaps Yuki had been right. Maybe he was weak and emotional and _attached._ If so, purging those things, no matter how painful, would be in his best interest. Using a saucer, he could demolish the entire planet. All life, no matter how strong or _moral_ , would be sucked into the vacuum of space and wither there and die.

_“Then why don’t you?”_

Memories of Yuki. The real one, not the puppet using his voice.

_“If you’re so heartless, Urara, then what’s stopping you?”_

He thought he knew the answer once: his own hesitation, his dear anxiety that kept him hopelessly tethered to the thoughts and opinions of others. But he was wrong.

It was Keito as she kneaded her hands into the soil and showed him how to plant the flowers they bought that morning, spreading the roots out a little but not too much. It was Haru as he pulled fresh clothes for Urara and made the ill-fitting, ill-suited garments into something that could be considered presentable. It was Yuki, the vibrant heart of their mismatched family. Yuki, who shared the meaning of a joke, who smiled the widest at Urara. Yuki, who walked a little faster to match Urara’s strides. Yuki, who, for so long, had been reduced to a simple doll while the true deceiver, fortified by years of neglect and isolation, hid deep inside himself.

He needed to go somewhere far away, somewhere were the waves didn’t crash so loudly. He craved hot sun and clouds that ran thin, never bearing a single drop of rain.

An echo ran down the deserted street.

He saw Yuki, sweat-drenched and calling his name.

He ran.

But he didn’t know these streets the way Yuki did. He staggered around corners. He trembled under the force of Yuki’s voice, the way he screamed his name like it was something that truly, honestly mattered. The name followed him down alleys, past the salarymen, out into the park (“ _The one for tourists_ ,” Natsuki had mumbled under his breath), along the row of fishshops, the rickety stands of the local fishmongers, and over the roar of the waves as they struck rock and broke. He burst onto a trail, one that ran up a hill and to a shrine, one he had never visited but promised Yuki he would, that towered in the silhouette of a tall man. Yuki was suddenly too close and grabbed him, wheeled them both off the trail and into the side of a tree.

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Yuki, in his garish pajamas and with his hair stuck up in all directions, bangs clumped and stuck to his forehead, held his crumpled-up note in one hand.

“So that’s it, huh?” Yuki’s breathing was erratic and his voice was hoarse, cracking in places. “You decide to take me out to the pier and make some _vague_ warning so that you can just… _run off_ in the middle of the night. That’s really cool, Urara. That’s what _friends_ do.”

“Yuki, we’re not-”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Yuki snapped, smoothing out the note and holding it out to Urara. “What’s this, then? If we’re not friends, then what is this?”

“I-”

“Right. Of course.” Yuki chuckled and looked at the single word, ‘ _Sayonara_ ’. “You probably don’t know, do you?”

It was hard to face Yuki like this. He wanted to turn away and hide as he always did and wait until Yuki forgave him (as Yuki always did).

Instead, Urara took the note back and told Yuki the truth.

\---

He told him everything, of how he felt as they walked home together, of what he did to Yuki that afternoon, and of how he lied through his teeth that night.

Each word was a cut, and as they continued to spill from his mouth, the source of his guilt was slowly carved out.

\---

Morning broke over the hill and dyed the looming arch a new shade of red.

“…You were going to run and not tell me any of this,” Yuki stated. Birds rose in the distance, their shrill call piercing the chilled air. There was no need for Urara to answer him now.

Gravel crunched under Yuki’s bare feet as he paced the narrow path. One of his toenails had blood welling up under the nail and it stained bits of the gravel.

“Yuki, are you…?” Urara immediately shut his mouth.

“What?” He wheeled around and glared at Urara. “What were you going to say?”

It had been a mistake, but now, faced with those hateful eyes, he could only submit.

“I was looking at your foot and I… I wanted to ask…” His hands were shaking. “Yuki, are you hurt?”

Yuki didn’t glance down. His gaze remained fixed.

“Yes, I am.”

\---

They climbed deeper into the woods, finally emerging in a small clearing by the water. The entrance of the cliff-side cave was partially hidden by Coco’s façade, but, once its location was known, the technology could only do so much. The stone face was too smooth and clear compared to the thick grain of the natural wall.

Coming here was Urara’s idea. Yuki had followed in silence.

“You can watch me leave,” Urara said, “after I contact the homeworld, under supervision of course.”

Yuki kicked a pebble and watched it roll off the steep cliff edge and into the water. “Would this be my supervision? Or Coco’s? Or maybe _Haru’s_?”

“Yuki.” He sighed, burying his head in his hands and trying not to sob, to let the tears he held so tightly break free. The boy’s name was a song, a hymn, a lamentation for all he had lost. “Yuki, this is for the best. I…cannot remain here and live unpunished.”

“You assaulted me,” Yuki said.

Nails raked along his scalp and tore loose thin strands of pink-blue. “Yes,” he whispered, digging the nails deeper. “Yes, I did.”

“I…trusted you.”

 It was almost lost under the crash of the waves, but, for Urara, the confession, the _honest_ confession, eclipsed all else. This was the cruel reality of the world. He, a wretch, stood and quivered and fell by the will of others. In the sunlight, Yuki glowed, the dusting of freckles on his neck like the sky’s prized constellations. From afar, he gazed and grasped, desperately, at that which would never be his.

The lure swayed and Urara snapped.

Yuki was looking at him with eyes so wide and wary and _afraid_. Pupils were small dark pinpricks in the sunlight. Grey shone.

“Go inside, Urara,” Yuki ordered, but he faltered and stuttered at the end. What did he see staring back at him? Had the painted disguise for Urara’s madness finally faded away? Did he finally see the stitched face underneath? Those eyes widened and widened. _Fear_.

“We’re alone here,” Urara said, his lips curling into a wide, indulgent grin. “The alarms only activate when the perimeter has been breached. Ease has made these invaders lax, Yuki, and I doubt anyone’s watching the cameras.”

He watched Yuki process the information. The solution was clear; Yuki would attempt to get past him and set off the alarms himself.

It was Urara who acted quicker. He ran forward, locked their arms together, and pushed them both off the cliff and into freefall, the wall of dark blue water rushing up to greet them. Yuki fought desperately, digging his sharp elbow into Urara’s stomach and kicking wildly, but the moment the water hit them in that wonderful, deep _plunge_ , Yuki was his once again. The impact knocked the air from Urara’s lungs and sent him flailing for the surface, and he dragged his doll with him, pushing Yuki’s head above the water and forcing him to take deep, filling breaths. His backpack kept pulling him back down and below the surface, and Urara eagerly rid himself of it. Although he was unaccustomed to this body, the long limbs seemed to work well in the water and he easily tread despite the current. Just inches away, Yuki’s head bobbed unsteadily, his legs thrashing in strange, uncoordinated motions.

For the last time, Urara kissed him, holding him steady and close as the waves hit. His bangs were in the way and there was too much teeth, but Urara knew that this moment rested on the thinnest pane of glass and hairline cracks spread with each passing second, mirroring each hit of the waves or touch of their skin. Somewhere beneath the scent and taste of salt was Yuki.

Urara wrapped his arms tighter around him and desperately wished for the world to slow just this once and let him remain here, foolish and weak as he may be.

As they parted, he choked back a sob.

“Sayonara, Yuki.”

The answer was finally clear to him. No matter how painful it may be, he needed to break all bonds. Only true solitude would bring him peace.

He let Yuki go and watched as the water rose up. His lips burned with the memory of their kiss.

The lifeless doll sunk and Yuki drowned.

\---


	6. Waxing

He got as far as the outskirts of Tokyo before a bright yellow truck careened off the street and onto the sidewalk, the big ‘D’ on the side right at eyelevel. Two similar vehicles flashed sirens and formed a makeshift blockade behind him. More were approaching with their sirens wailing. The blocky yellow vehicles were hard to miss even amongst the thick traffic and streams of pedestrians. He counted about twenty in total, plus the ominous whirl of a low-flying helicopter.

As the doors flew open and the guns and suits poured out, he meant to say something sarcastic, but the reality was that he was completely and utterly terrified. The thick yellow material rendered his abilities completely useless and the swarm of the people quickly boxed him in, leveling their guns directly at him. Two agents dragged him into the big rectangular truck and cuffed his arms three times. A blindfold went on next. The back doors slammed shut and the city noise was silenced.

For hours, he was tossed around as the truck made sharp turns and lurched to a stop and accelerated and, inexplicably, was lifted directly upwards. That last motion seemed especially significant. Neither of the agents spoke to him. An agent flicked their radio on at one point, but the spoken language was unknown. For hours, or perhaps days, he lived in isolation.

\---

The drowned boy had been important to him once. Even now, the boy’s fate was guiding his.

\---

When the truck stopped, the agents grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. The back door slammed open and two different people dragged him outside, letting him trip as he stepped off the edge.

Much like the truck, this new place was exceedingly quiet. The new people’s shoes made no sound while Urara’s skid and clacked on the smooth floor. He almost tripped again, but he was roughly pulled upright and made to move even faster.

A door slid into place and they shoved him inside. The momentum made him stumble. Much like the first time he arrived on Earth, his body staggered like that of a newborn fawn. Unseen eyes watched him and judged. What were they searching for? What would they _find_?

“Remove it,” said a deep, authoritative voice.

The blindfold was yanked down and left hanging limp around his throat. The men by his side were covered in contoured yellow plates, obscuring their faces and hands. On their chests, the familiar ‘D’ logo was proudly displayed.

An intricate, vaulted ceiling loomed overhead. The ribs were abnormally steep, a feat of the humans’ architectural prowess. It was almost difficult to believe that this entire structure was so far underground. He could barely feel the sky’s touch.

Spotless white surrounded him. Every surface in the monolithic hollow bore the same matte white finish, giving the impression of an infinite, borderless space. The curvature of the ceiling echoed the underside of tall waves; he was deep inside a false sea.

In front of him was a white desk. The man seated there was dark, slender, and dressed in a slim black suit. Tucked neatly in his front pocket was the yellow card indicating a high-ranking D.U.C.K. agent. Urara already knew who he was.

After his second landing on Earth, Agent Yamada, among others, had greeted him. With only Haru and Coco by his side, the many agents, dressed in their yellow protective wear and holstering oversized pistols, seemed like an approaching army. Yamada’s face had been somewhat familiar, but it was long into that conversation (one-sided as it was) before Urara could place him.

Yamada waved his hand. The men by Urara’s side, _guards_ , released him and took several steps back.

“Urara, formerly known as JFX.” From under the desk, Yamada pulled out a thick white folder and flipped through its contents. Urara’s image flickered by several times, the spec of pink-blue difficult to miss amongst all the persistent and pristine white. “Due to _unique_ circumstances, you managed to avoid our capture after your first major infraction of the Interstellar Code. Your homeworld, known to us as AOX, took on the responsibility of handling the ramifications of your actions.” Yamada paused, snapping the folder shut. “However, after consulting with AOX directly, you will now remain, permanently, under our jurisdiction. Leniency is no longer available to you, not after this.”

“I expected as much,” Urara replied. The cuffs cut into him and he tried to turn his arms a little to relieve the pressure. Bruises had formed under the lowest set, one blossoming outwards like a muddy rose.

Yamada’s fist hit the desk. His expression didn’t change.

“You will regret returning to Earth,” he said evenly. “Our organization favours cooperation when possible, but there is no cooperating with monsters. A group of our researchers are extremely interested in examining the effects of mechanized reconstruction on alien bodies and I assure you, Urara, that they will consider no other test subject but you.”

Laughter bubbled up his throat and escaped through clenched teeth. “I’d wondered if you knew about that. Not many do. My crewmembers didn’t.”

“AOX has remained in close contact with us since your retrieval.”

Coco probably lent them her quantum entanglement device. Given their rapid mastery of technology, the humans would have it duplicated and mass-produced within a couple of years.

“You disapproved of my return here, didn’t you?” Urara asked. When Akira didn’t react, he felt like laughing again. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. But AOX is, _was_ , our partner in your rehabilitation. Your failure has now tipped the scale in our favour.”

Those of Urara’s kind prided themselves on two things: their adaptability and the secure knowledge that no matter what horrors befell them on another world, they would always have the homeworld and their homeforms to return to. Having failed in his adaptability, he was robbed of his true form. The warden decreed that appropriate retribution would lie in the erasing of his failings, both in the past and present. Urara’s mind and reputation needed to become _ideal_.

Returning to this planet had never been his idea. Enoshima was another stage of punishment, no different than the tearing of surgical tools through brittle scales.

“It must be difficult to look at me,” Urara said, smiling, “knowing what I did to your friend.”

Wrath clenched Yamada’s fists and darkened his eyes. Under that suit and title was a living, breathing, _loving_ human and nothing could hide that truth from Urara. The nearby guards shifted.

“It is for Yuki’s sake that I…” A falter, a crack of human emotion. The guards shifted again. “Our regulations require a final assessment of the accused. Although informal, this discussion will suffice.”

“Humans and their vengeful justice,” Urara mused, shaking his head.

 Yamada flipped to the last page of his folder. The shock of red was unmistakable.

With his free hand, he waved the guards forwards

 Something pricked Urara’s neck, a _needle_ , and he fell to the floor. Without expression, Yamada watched.

The blindfold felt like mercy.

\---

As Yuki’s head lolled back, Urara knew his escape from Enoshima was doomed to fail.

Hopelessly fractured, his true body could not withstand the pressure of even a few feet underwater, not to mention the pull of current or undertow. Wind would flay him wide open. Useful as it was, his disguise relied so heavily on substance and precise maintenance to survive. Humans also patrolled these shores and one of their kind, astray and alone in the water, would appear suspicious.

Yuki’s sudden disappearance (although it, truly, wasn’t all that sudden; his pale face shrinked so slowly from Urara’s sight) would keep Coco here on Earth. Unlike Haru, she kept the saucers under tight security. For all intensive purposes, the saucers were now unobtainable. If it hadn’t been for his emotional _outburst_ , he could have timed things better.

The only remaining option was to escape on foot. His money had sunk. His knowledge of human custom had grown, but it was still so little compared to that of a local inhabitant.

Nevertheless, he had to try. Swimming to shore, he found a hollow in the underbrush to hide and dry his clothes and think. When he emerged, it was without memory of chains. He stole open-box donations from the hilltop shrine and dodged the inquiries of the tourists. In the small bathroom by the post office, he scrubbed the dirt from his hair and face. Chainless, he felt lighter.

A coerced tourist told him of the airport in Tokyo. Anyone who knew Urara personally would expect him to cling to some remote isle or village and hide and wither; a city teeming with people would, theoretically, be his last choice. There was the added risk of more police and assorted authorities roving about, but the very idea of escape was already completely and utterly mad. If, _when_ , he was caught, he would instinctively quiver and shake and _beg_ as his body commanded, but his mind, chainless, would watch unflinchingly.

Long ago, his species’ progression had plateaued. Lacking any creative or intellectual spark, they waded and circled the endless waters of their planet until death, a steadily creeping thing, washed over them. The few with actual vision embarked on missions to other worlds, although these missions were more of a glorified vacation. With nothing to seek, there was nothing to gain through diplomacy or trade with other worlds. As long as their reputation remained relatively spotless, the homeworld saw no reason to deter would-be travelers.

And yet, despite their initiative, the travelers found it difficult to change. Their natural maturation was usually accelerated through stimuli, but this acceleration never altered their base nature. Innately, all of their species is bound to the cruel fate of the lure. The lure’s form is rarely consistent, but to each and every individual, there exists _something_ , sentient or not, that enslaves them to the core. Their will becomes subservient. The lure causes pleasure and pain, although not in equal quantities. For some, the sway is incomprehensible and maddening.

For one as proud as Urara, being so effortlessly _dominated_ was maddening. Even when he pinned the lure and touched it and bent it, he could never claim possession.

Beyond his outstretched hand, the lure had swayed and begun to slip and, contrary to the very nature of his species, he let it fall. A millennia of chains broke and followed the lure’s descent, vanishing into the dark.

And so, it did not matter if the humans caught him. An escape would be nice, but merely having the freedom to _try_ was enough for him.

\---

A few more D.U.C.K. agents taunted and interrogated him. The experience was hardly worth noting.

Afterward, he was taken even further underground and shocked with a large yellow machine until his disguise finally crumbled. He was then placed in a small clear jar and painfully transported to a different section of the building. The number of passing agents lessened until only his guards remained. A tall woman in yellow greeted them and took his jar from them, cradling it in her hands.

“Some of the stitches have been damaged,” she said to the guards, signaling for the agent who trailed behind her, also dressed in yellow, to bring forward a metal cart. “Use a trolley next time.”

“Our apologies, Madam. We received no such instructions.”

“Sure, whatever.” She placed his jar on the tray, which immediately leveled and stabilized. “Tell Yamada I’ll take good care of his fish.” The guards saluted and left.

“The MPI count in the water is abnormally high,” said the agent, tapping one of the screens attached to the cart.

She snorted. “It’s probably because those morons over at HQ agitated the subject. We’re just lucky they remembered to put water in the bowl.” She tapped a screen several times and the water temperature increased slightly. “We’re going to Operating Theatre B1 and _not_ B3. I had the first key changed and added another 14 bits. Unless one of the idiots upstairs managed to solve the DLP, we shouldn’t have any unexpected visitors.”

“I’ll make sure the appropriate information is passed on.”

“Good. In fifty minutes, I start cutting. Anyone who isn’t sterilized by then gets left outside,” she snapped. The cart lurched and began moving at a slow speed, the tall woman matching its pace. “Tell Ace I’ve blacked out the cameras, so if he wants a look he has to come down here.”

“I’ll inform him, Madam.” The agent hurriedly ran off, his footsteps echoing.

The hallway branched off and the cart, which he now saw was fixed to a track on the floor, automatically turned. The woman’s face was partially hidden by the yellow mask she wore, the lower half set in a stern frown. The other half of the mask hung around her neck and bore the familiar ‘D’ logo.

When the cart slowed, she removed a panel from the wall and revealed a small number pad. She entered a very long number and stepped back as a hidden door slid open and admitted the cart. There were three more doors to go through, each with another number pad and another code, before they reached their destination.

The room was oval-shaped and brightly lit. Overhead, skeletal machines dangled, their spines acutely curved and their jaws wide. Visible wires stretched along their artificial bones. Some of their teeth were made of blades, others of needles. One had a large light bulb where its head should be.

Compared to the yellow of the halls outside, the expanse of white was a shock and it burned his sensitive eyes. The machines blurred into the undershape of waves and he thought of Yamada, of the futility of his actions, and of how, no matter how many times he was torn open, the waves would continue on.

The center of the room was a perfectly circular pit with four ramps surrounding it. As it followed the track, the cart declined but kept Urara’s jar perfectly level through a series of subtle adjustments. The tall woman had wandered off and was jamming numbers into a wall of computers, the machines overhead whirling at her command. Their strange, segmented shapes imitated those of constellations.

Without a sound, the cart slowed and stopped. Alone in the empty pit, Urara waited.

                                                                                                      ---


	7. Know Who You Are

A cluster of yellow-clad figures stood by the wall of computers and argued in a language that he did not understand. The tall woman yanked her mask up and reached for one of the control panels, but someone blocked her. The argument continued, the woman’s voice rising to a crescendo. Perhaps if he waited for long enough, he would eventually understand the words.

The voices fell as another figure entered the room, followed by a large entourage of yellow-plated guards. The newcomer was a shock of purple and blond. He repaired the fractured group with a single word and sent them hurrying to their stations. Orbiting predators loomed and clicked. A sharp machine lurched towards him and then froze in place.

“I’ll remind you, _Madam_ , that the subject is very valuable to us.” The blond strutted across the room and sank into one of the thin white chairs, crossing his ankles. He was speaking Japanese. “Try not to be _too_ overzealous during the first operation.”

“Research is what’s important, not vengeance.” Her reply was muffled by the mask. “I think you and your agents are the ones who need a reminder.”

He laughed. “Whatever you say, Madam. Our greatest flaw is our humanity, and yet it is also our greatest strength.”

Click click _click_. An open mouth descended into the shallow water. Intricate teeth spun in place, their ends dull. Vibrations were caused by the water’s parting, and they ran through his body and shook, vibrating along his closed wounds and testing their strength. The jaw locked around him: a makeshift cage of plastic and metal. His tailfin caught and tore.

“Clamps are in place. All appears to be stable.”

The man sighed and stood, waving at his entourage. “That’s all I needed to hear. I _hope_ there’s a similar report at the _end_ of the operation.”

A set of teeth tightened and squeezed. From the ceiling, another machine descended, slender and sickle-faced. A red beam shot from its eye and marked him along the curve of his stomach.

“Of course, sir.” Another machine whirled. “I will personally inform you of our findings.”

“As expected,” replied the man, waving the door open. The yellow engulfed him and he vanished from sight.

An eager edge cut into Urara, piercing him with ease. Flesh and scales parted, letting the clear water run red. Machinery shrieked as he split open. Organs split and floated past, some muted blue and others searing orange. When his eyes failed, he felt their bloated shapes displacing the water. The human dug deep, but with caution. He took solace in the hollow of his mind.

Calm waters stretched to the horizon and a moon hung low, shrouded by night clouds, governing the tides. This sea was a poisonous one, choking all intruders and leading them swiftly down to where the pressure was too great. Cracking bones echoed in his memory and, somewhere deep down, their dust settled. Somewhere below, the drowned boy rested.

He flirted with the crests of waves, letting the air brush his top fin. It was a dark night, but also a warm one. His wounds had sealed tightly, leaving only pale blue crisscrosses. Of course, with no rivals or suitors or _prey_ , appearances were irrelevant. What mattered now was how the moonlight felt, how it made him loosen and gasp.

The fathomless void below swallowed the noise of the drill, crushing the mechanical components with its pressure and grinding them into dust. Fine metal dust became finer as it fell. It fell into irrelevancy. Circling metal vultures plummeted and struggled and drowned, beaks agape and flooding with water, eyes wide as they choked.

The moon would fall by his will, taking the tides with it and leaving only him, a wandering wave, to rove unheeded, unbound, and free.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------


	8. Lonely

“Your question is dishonest.”

“Oh. I…guess that means ‘no’?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say. Typically, it’s in bad form to ask a question when you don’t really want to know the answer.”

“I guess I’m pretty transparent, huh?”

“No, I just know you too well.” A sigh. “Knowledge can be a burden, Yuki.”

“Do you really think I haven’t considered that already? It will be hard, but I want to know.” Through the receiver, he heard the shuffling of papers and several curses in English. “You _are_ allowed to tell me, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Akira barked, followed by a loud thud and several more curses. “My concern for your well-being is what…” He trailed off.

The audible tension pained Yuki, but in this moment, clutching his phone and doubled over, he wasn’t able to comfort Akira. Making the call had been _so hard_ and he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , let it end so indecisively. Once, curled under his blankets and alone in the dark, he had considered leaving the memories behind. Like words written in the sand and swept away by the tide, Urara would fade.

But he needed to know the truth.

“Akira, tell me what happened to Urara.”

At first, he thought Akira had hung up. Then, a sigh.

“Alright. Where do you want me to begin?”

\---

Akira told him of the glorified torture they were performing. Urara, an outcast and abandoned by his homeworld, had no legal rights. Morality was the only protection he had and, from what Akira told him, that wasn’t much of an obstacle.

“As of today, he will have been reassembled forty-seven times. Of those procedures, only one had serious complications.”

He shoved the phone under his pillow so Akira wouldn’t hear him cry, biting down on his hand to stifle the noise. “What were the complications?” he asked, focusing on keeping his voice even. The tears burned when he blinked them back.

“His eyesight was severely damaged on the thirtieth,” Akira said, “resulting in complete loss of vision in the left eye and partial in the right.”

He wanted to scream. He bit down hard enough to leave angry red marks.

“He’s some threat now, isn’t he?” he muttered. “Urara sure is capable of _hurting people_ now that he’s immobile and in some underground facility with guards and constant surveillance. I’m sure there’s _some_ logical reason why this has to continue, some reason that I wouldn’t understand.”

“Telling you was a bad idea,” Akira said as Yuki sobbed. “I…knew you would be like this.”

“Like what?” Yuki snapped.  

“In denial,” Akira replied. Yuki knew the expression he wore now, that narrow-eyed one that made him seem so wise.

At his core, Akira wasn’t stoic or calm. Like Yuki, he was hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Yuki said, clutching his chest. “I’m selfish, aren’t I? Even though you can tell me, you’re not ready to and I…didn’t notice until now.” Akira was quiet. He continued.”I don’t know how I feel about what happened, not yet anyways. It was wrong of me to push you like this…”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Akira’s voice was trembling.

He couldn’t handle this right now. He mumbled, “I… I’ll call you later.”

“Goodnight, Yuki.”

Akira promptly ended the call. He was at Eastern Headquarters, a familiar and safe place, and Yuki could only hope that he would find comfort there. As he stared at Akira’s name on his contact list, the number an unlisted one that took him months to pry from the ever-collected agent, he wanted to call him again, to apologize until everything felt normal again. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, Akira would relax and tease him for it. These days, Akira always sounded so high-strung; the persona he wore as an agent rarely, if ever, faltered.

The incident had changed everything. A persistent stillness settled in the rooms of his grandmother’s house, making every creak of the floorboards seem so loud. Actions of daily life were intrusive, breaking the illusion of quiet, of an absence from time.

Empty months had passed. He still expected to hear the ‘thud’ of Urara dragging his schoolbag down the stairs, yawning behind one hand and bleary-eyed. His bangs would be a tangled mess and Haru would pout and complain, waving a comb admonishingly. On mornings like that, they were late to school, but Yuki didn’t have the heart to scold them for it. Urara was clumsy but earnest, and Yuki couldn’t be angry at someone like that.

_“Yuki, are you hurt?”_

Things had changed, hadn’t they?

_“We’re alone here,” Urara said, his lips curling into a wide, indulgent grin._

He remembered the water rushing up to greet them and clawing at those locked arms with all his strength. The cliffside passed in a blur, exposed rock and stray roots merging into one sweep of grey-brown. Urara was so quick and suddenly he was fainting, the world tilting ever further and fading to black. The breaking of the water echoed in his head, fading as the dark rushed in. He tried to hold on and dig his nails in, but control was shifting away, being _taken_ from him. It was the fear that stayed with him, lurking somewhere shadowed and unseen. Wind howled, pulling at his arms and legs, desperately tearing him from Urara’s grasp. The water fought back, dragging him in and, lifeless, he sunk.

All was dark. When his eyes opened again, the thick dark remained. Water flooded his lungs and his first breath was a choke. He had no strength to part the water, to break through the surface and _breathe_. The water kept slipping past his lips and teeth. He was heavy and dazed, his vision tilting into that familiar, terrifying dark.

A wrist-shape parted the water, a pale cut in the dark blue. Those short nails and boney hands were ones that he knew. The palms were soft against his.

The persistent dark washed over him. In those trusted arms, he lost consciousness. He couldn’t recall what happened afterwards, except for a sharp pain in his chest and Haru’s screaming, so loud that it pierced through his exhaustion and hurt and roused that protective nature of his. He tried to raise his arms, but they wouldn’t move. The screaming continued. Then, a shock of white. An unfamiliar ceiling. Some kind of tube or needle was in his arm and another was up his nose. The hours passed so quickly, his grandmother by his side and writing down everything the doctors or nurses said in a small notebook. The pen she was using was one Haru decorated for her, the wispy flowers on the side matching those in her spring garden. It was long before he remembered the mad sheen of Urara’s halo and the curve of his smile, sharp as a reaper’s scythe. “ _We’re alone here,”_ he said and Yuki froze, afraid. He thought of those afternoons on the school roof and Urara tipping his head back to stare at the clouds, frowning thoughtfully as he felt for rain. Those afternoons were spent with Urara, his friend.

Alone in his room, he wept. Despite how much he hurt, he rarely broke down like this. If he was too loud, Grandma or Haru would hear and come bursting in. He wouldn’t burden them.

He tried to stop, but couldn’t. He was hurt.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a direct sequel, ‘The Motion of the Moon’, which continues from here.
> 
> I split my original story in two since the pairings and summary need to be changed.
> 
> …Please check out the sequel! It’s also completed and will be uploaded as I revise it. It should be part of the 'Wayward' series.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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